


Shattered Memories

by TheGovernmentsGoldfish



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dancing, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Greg loves flowers, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Not Really?, Old Friends, Slow Burn, sherlock is a small boy, what can i say
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2019-12-30 19:30:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18321749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGovernmentsGoldfish/pseuds/TheGovernmentsGoldfish
Summary: After a messy divorce, Greg is left to deal with the aftermath alone, or so it seems. That is until fate, in the form of a brilliant junkie and a wild case, leads him to a man that seems like everything he had ever been looking for. However, are these new feelings truly what he needs, or could unchecked emotions get in the way and ruin everything?





	1. A Return

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first story, so please feel free to offer any advice that you may have! I hope you enjoy.

As he woke up, everything was red. That was all he could see, filling his view and clouding his judgment, making him feel claustrophobic. It seemed to overtake him, wanting to make him scream and shout, and to grab the nearest thing to him and throw it. It made his eyes heat with an indescribable warmth, one that left behind a trail of wetness, running over his pale cheeks that seemed to not see the sun for what felt like years. It was a kind of red that made him feel inhuman. Not a bright red, filled with passion and desire. No, that red was one that could be seen if you looked close enough at two lovers midway through a dance; him dipping her in the sunset, a look in their eyes that says that they can not wait to return home. Not the red of a rose that makes you wish to drag someone into a warm embrace and hold them close, or the red of lipstick, that if carefully applied correctly, could make men go crazy. No, this was a dull red; the color of a dried wound that _still hurts_. 

Soon, though, the feeling ebbed until that red faded into what seemed like nothing. It always did. It never stuck around too long, but it always came, just long enough to remind him of the pain that he felt, and would be felt for decades to come. When the red fully fades, what’s left behind is Greg. Greg, whose only reminder that he truly saw that red, and was, in fact, not going crazy, was a headache that seemed to settle behind his eyes like it belonged there. In all truth, it probably did, so much so that it was a daily routine for the silver-haired man to begin his morning with some headache medication that he now kept in his bedside drawer. Wait, silver-haired? Had he always been like that, or had this, too, come on because of recent events? Either way, it wouldn’t surprise him. Everything about his old self had seemingly disappeared from memory, almost as if it was ripped from him like the majority of his possessions were in recent times. And, if it was a new development, it wasn’t like he would notice. It seemed like he never looked in the mirror anymore, afraid of what he would see. Today, though, he would have to look. He was expected back to work today, which in all reality was probably a good thing. He needed something to do... Just a distraction to make him feel human again. He couldn’t just go through the motions every day, downing bottle after sympathy bottle he received. Despite what his head said, he knew it was bad for him.

The sympathetic glances were the thing that the man was the least excited for. It happened every time. First, the signature look fell upon their face, a silent ‘oh you poor thing’ in their eyes, before they asked the dreaded question of how he was. It lead to a strained, faked promise that he was fine, and another look that said how little they believed him. That's why he locked himself out from the world, hiding in his apartment for the whole time he had off. He was deemed unfit for duty, with everyone agreeing that he simply needed time to rest. How wrong they were. That’s why he would be strong today. He would go into work with a bright smile on his face and be the DI everyone needed him to be. Christ. Detective Inspector Lestrade. How long had it last been since Greg had heard that? Despite how he had been feeling all morning, an almost giddy feeling pushed its way through his chest and pulled a weak smile at his lips. Maybe today wouldn't be that bad. 

Unaware of what time it truly was, since he hadn’t heard his alarm go off, he quickly glanced over to his old, simple, black clock. Christ, it was only four am. Knowing that he couldn’t get back to sleep now, he decided he might as well take a shower, shave, and make breakfast. Make himself presentable for the masses. With that thought, Greg managed to push himself up, groaning softly. His hands, calloused and rough from years of working for the force, rubbed over his eyes, trying to push the sleep away. He made sure not to push too hard, though, lest he make the throbbing in his head worse. Once he deemed his vision clear enough to walk he pushed out of bed, shivering as his bare feet made contact with the cold, wooden floor. The quick jolt suddenly made him question how long it had been since he moved, though he decided not to dwell on it, and rather just get going. He stumbled a bit at first, though he pushed it aside as just morning dizziness as he made his way to the bathroom. He turned the water on before turning to the mirror, looking over himself with a small chuckle. No wonder things had gone to shit. That she no longer wanted him, and maybe never did. God. Once upon a time, he could have been considered attractive. He had played rugby, worked out... Bloody took care of himself. Seemed as if all those days were over. His scruff had filled out, and the bags under his eyes were evident, and tear tracks stained his cheeks. Looks like he had a lot of cleaning up to do. He started by showering, slipping in and letting the warmth cascade over his shoulders, and down his back. He started with his hair, before giving attention to the rest of himself. God, he should have done this earlier rather than sit around and feel sorry for himself. In the end, he spent an hour under the stream, just letting the time fly by. Once he felt content enough to get out, he moved to dry himself off before standing in front of the shower, brushing his hair before taking his razor in hand. For some reason, this is what got him. He paused, looking over himself and wondering what happened. Trembling, he began. He just wanted to get it over with. Luckily enough, he ended the shaving with only one small cut, which was easy enough to hide.

By the time he made his way out of the bathroom and had dressed in a decent looking suit, he felt more human. More like the detective inspector he was supposed to be. The only last problem, one he couldn’t solve yet, was that he was completely out of food. His kitchen was fully bare, and it struck a pang of guilt that hit directly in his stomach; he had told Donovan that he had been eating properly and that she shouldn’t worry about bringing anything over. She was an angel, truly. He would have to remember to get her something nice. However, those thoughts were cut short when he realized what time it was, and that he had to get a cab now.

Greg grabbed his coat, rushing out without even a coffee to keep him company, and a false smile on his face. He summoned the first cab he saw, shoving in his briefcase before he slid in as well, telling the driver to go. He could not be late on his first day back. He could not let them see how much this was haunting him. He just couldn’t.

 

\---

 

It wasn’t long before Greg was there, Scotland yard towering before him. He took a deep breath, a more genuine smile beginning to form. This place felt like home more than that dingy, broken down flat ever did. Christ, even the lock was broken. Here, though, he knew that people would be too busy for sympathy. They had seen much worse than a divorce on a daily basis. As he stepped inside he took a look around, admiring the view. It wasn’t like anything had changed, but that was why he was so grateful for it. Just something similar to bring him back. The second he got upstairs to where his floor and office was, he was greeted by a few familiar faces.

“Hey Lestrade, how was the trip?”

“Heya boss, was your vacation good?” 

“Good to have you back, Greg! Tell the missus hi for me, will you?”

He answered all the questions with ease and smiled as more like them came. The last one stung a bit, of course, but he simply nodded and said that he would. It looked like Sally had kept it a secret for him. He really owed her, now. 

“Hey, Greg!” 

At the sound of a familiar voice calling his name out, he turned, a grin filling his face as his head jolted up to see the familiar smile that he had missed the most. Well, speak of the devil.

“Sally, bloody hell, I've missed you.” Greg grinned, dropping his bags by his feet to pull her into his arms. She rolled her eyes fondly and gave in, her own smile matching his. That made Greg feel warm, truly. She was rarely one to show much affection, and for him to be greeted like this. Well, at least he had someone left in his life that he could count on. That was something that he thought he had lost. It wasn’t in the legal documents that she got all their friends along with the good half of their things, but they had never truly been his friends. He was the trophy husband that she didn't want. A decoration for them all to laugh at while he sat there, silent and taking it with a tight-lipped smile. Christ, he should stop thinking. He's back at work, they're gone, it's over. He deserved it and that's that. 

He pulled back after a moment, looking to her for an update. They had work to do.

“Good to see you're doing better, Boss. It was shit here without you. The others and I can't even fathom how much paperwork you've got on your desk. It'll be a lot to get through, no doubt, so I hope you're ready. First, though,” She paused, a guilty smile forming on her lips and a mischievous glint in her eyes. Oh God, this couldn't be good. “I would love to get you settled in properly, but we got a call a bit ago. We sent people out already, but they're requesting that you come immediately. There's been a murder down in some back alley behind a bar. The scene seems pretty simple.. looks like the man was drunk and in a fight. Seems like the type, at least. However, seems to be more complicated than that. When we searched this guy, forensics found a brand on his neck, and a few IOU’s in his pocket. Then, God, you wouldn't believe this. There's this druggie down there, too, refusing to leave and calling Anderson an idiot when he ‘doesn't notice the details.’ Someone's restrained him, but they don't want to bring him in yet since he seems to know what he's talking about. They want your opinion. Welcome back,” She laughed, an apologetic sigh falling from her lips. “There's a coffee waiting for you in the car,” She added, hoping to make up for this. 

Greg listened to every word carefully, not wanting to miss out on details that could be important. He couldn’t mess things up now that he was back. Not for himself, and most certainly not for Sally. Plus, he most certainly did not mind going back to an actual case, rather than a pile of papers. Then, his brain paused, registering the coffee part. He could have groaned at that, need it more than he thought. 

“Christ, Sal, you utter star. Thanks, really.” He offered a tilted grin, cocking his head slightly. “Plus,” he began, matching her mischievous look. “I'd much rather work on whatever this is than whatever Gregson's put aside for me. I won't tell him if you don't.”

That pulled a chaste laugh from his friend as she rolled her eyes, then turned to leave. He followed her swiftly down the stairs and out the door, before settling into the comforting feeling of the passenger’s side of a police car.

\---

By the time they had arrived at the scene, the day had changed to match the mood of the scene. The sky had opened up and poured down on the unexpecting, and dreadfully unprepared detective. It felt like ice, cascading down his entire body. Almost the same sensation as his shower earlier, though a bit colder. Screw that- a lot colder. His whole body trembled as a shiver made its way through his body, and a scowl deepened onto his face. He lived in London, for christ sakes. Grew up in East End, been here his whole life, and he hadn’t even bothered to remember his backup umbrella. To a bloody outside case. Thank god once more for Sally, who, after she had finished laughing at the miserable expression on his face, offered him an extra. 

Half soaked from head to toe, Sally’s bright pink umbrella in hand, Greg made his way onto the scene. That earned a few soft chuckles from other officials on the scene, but he didn’t mind. If he knew any of them, he simply struck a playful pose, mimicking the duck face he had seen his sister do multiple times online as she posed for pictures. That earned him a hearty laugh from one of his colleagues, and that rather brought a smile to his face. Screw everything that had been going on; this was where he belonged. In a place where he could make a difference.

That attitude quickly faded, however, when his eyes landed over the bruised body that had landed, dead, in the ally. No one had mentioned that he had been just a kid. Just a bloody kid, couldn't have been over nineteen. That thought brought a sick, queasy feeling into the detective’s stomach. He shivered once more, though this time not from the cold, as he bent over to examine him. There was obvious bruising around his face, leaving him with a broken nose, a black eye, and a split lip; he looked completely unrecognizable, a completely different person than the happy-go-lucky kid on his license. He also had multiple grab wound on his arms and wrists, and bruises surrounding his neck. He was choked to death. Then he searched the rest of his body. There indeed was a brand on the back of his neck, and slips of IOU’s scattered around him. Cases like this broke his heart. How could anyone do this to a kid, no matter how much he owed? He knew what it was like to be in a rough situation when he was younger, but he couldn't have imagined it ever getting to this point. He just wished he could do more.

   As he heard his name he was pulled out of his thoughts, causing him to glance up. As he saw Sally approach he stood, groaning slightly. He truly had to get out more. Right as he was about to check what she needed, he was cut off by the annoyed tone in her voice as she spoke. 

   “We have a situation,” she groaned softly, running a hand through her hair. Her annoyed mood only deepened as her fingers got caught in a knot, causing her to mess with it for a moment, and eventually giving up and pulling away with an exasperated sigh. “You remember that kid I told you about? The druggy? Turns out he’s under some sort of protection. They’re releasing him, so if you want to ask him any questions, you'd better get over there.”

   “Oh, Christ. What is this case turning into? A ki8d with IOUs and now a druggy under some sort of supernatural protection?” Greg groaned, shifting the umbrella on his shoulder, practically shouting to be heard over the storm. “Either way, thanks, Sal. I'll get over there.” He nodded, patting her shoulder on the way by. Truth be told, he had forgotten about this boy until now, but he regretted that he had. Now that he was safe, he could possibly lose all chance to question him about why he had been on the scene. 

At that thought he sped up, feet splashing in the puddles. He hardly noticed, or cared, as his trousers became splashed with water- he needed answers. In the approaching distance, Greg noticed a young boy, about the age of the one that had been killed, with curly hair and torn jeans getting into a jet black, expensive looking car. Something about that didn’t seem right. He was so close, so bloody close, when he was stopped in his tracks by a deep, posh voice. 

“Hello, Detective Inspector Lestrade. Pleased to see that your men had taken good care of my dear brother, but I am sure that you would have preferred to be here yourself. Pity that your.. Personal issues prevented that.”

Without even looking up the sultry smirk was evident in the voice that was speaking to him. Greg felt anger swell up inside his chest. Who the hell was this stranger to march onto his crime scene and speak to him like that? And how the hell had he known about his break?

As he finally looked up to the rude stranger, every word caught in his throat, and every hint of anger that he had felt was replaced by a much different feeling. 

“Hello, Gregory.”

  
  



	2. A Remembered Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Memories of Greg's and Mycroft's past are brought to light and despite everything, Greg decides to trust Mycroft once more in order to gain some answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know if there were any mistakes with the writing pr paragraph structures! Something went wrong with my computer while copying, but I'm pretty sure that it's fixed now. <3

“What the hell are you doing here?”

 

As those words rang through the air, cutting the sharp, uncomfortable silence that had settled between the two, a small smirk settled across the man’s lips. He stood straighter, gently hanging his umbrella over his arm with the handle, and running his hand over his three-piece, grey striped suit to flatten it out. No matter the situation, no matter  _ who _ he was standing opposite from, the elder Holmes had to present himself as meticulous. No one should be able to spot a flaw, with the one exception being Sherlock.

He always made sure that Sherlock could spot at least one mistake, for both of their sakes. For his brother, he wished to keep his self-confidence up. If he had presented as perfect, it would scare the other into believing that his own talents were less than they truly were. Mycroft knew this and refused to be the reason that his dear younger brother shied away from his incredible mind. Instead, he would tease him. Yes, he was aware of the irony of the situation, but he also knew that anyone else would do the same if they had the mind of a Holmes. Teasing him brought out the competitiveness, causing the younger to aspire to be smarter. Even though he began this mistake tradition for his brother alone, Mycroft also grew to need it in his daily routine. Every little mistake that he let slip was one more reminder that he was more than the machine he was wanted to be, and trained himself to be. For a long while, that was all he was. He never wished to be that again, despite still presenting that way. 

The second he began in politics, he had convinced himself that becoming the ‘Iceman’ that everyone saw him as was the only way. He pushed out everything else, and all he did was work; no eat, no sleep, and especially no emotions. That nearly cost him his life, and family as well, as Sherlock took to drugs soon after.

And that is where this story began. The story of Mycroft Holmes and Gregory Lestrade. 

\---

Despite the so-called common knowledge of loving no one in the political world, the British Government truly did care for his younger brother. He was smart enough to understand that his actions, as well as his brother’s recent introduction to public school, was the primary cause of Sherlock’s downward spiral. He realized that, if he wanted his brother back, he had to stop being this machine that they wanted him to be. However, after so much training to one’s mind to be one way, it was almost impossible to get back. At least... alone. So, with much sorrow to admit, his acquaintance with Gregory Lestrade had been purely selfish.

They had not been in a relationship, no, but rather they had come across each other is a much more mysterious way. Not mysterious for Mycroft, of course, as he had scouted out Gregory beforehand. At the time, the now detective inspector had just made his way into the force. Despite how bright and capable he was, he was unable to make himself known to his higher-ups, who wanted results and nothing more, having no care for those around them. Gregory, however, was kind-hearted. So, taking advantage of the wonderful opportunity (and man) presented to him, Mycroft came in, promising results.

He would leave the other man evidence that he had found on his free time, completely anonymously, to help with investigations.  It stayed like that for a long while, notes and bags being left at the other’s doorstep, in his car, or at his favorite booth in his favorite cafe, while Mycroft would watch. The smile that those little gifts produced seemed to melt away some of the ice. If anyone had tried to tell the government the effect that Greg’s deep brown eyes, or bright, warm smile, had on Mycroft’s heart, they would have thought them ill. In all reality, if Mycroft had been watching from an outside perspective, he would not have believed it either, but it was true. 

The only problem, however, was that it could not go farther. The Iceman’s ice had melted off of his cold heart just enough, and Gregory’s career had taken off. That was all that the politician had needed at the time, so he was ready to pull away. Or so he thought. It wasn’t that easy, though. He found himself missing, almost craving, those reactions, just as a baby needed its mother. He found himself constantly thinking of the other’s smile, wanting to see the shine in his eyes when he pieced together the notes Mycroft had left him, and his work productivity decreased. Even his assistant had begun to notice how distracted he became, and they could not be having that, especially for someone as indispensable as Holmes was. He had opened up too much, and he had to fix that. He would, quite foolishly, allow himself one more letter as a goodbye. He would give the man the answer to the largest mystery that he had ever faced as a sort of a farewell present.

One thing that he had not counted on, unfortunately, was that Gregory was a detective. The silver-haired man had become increasingly interested in the letters, and he had done an investigation of his own. He realized that his mysterious stranger that left the letters was quite predictable in the sense that he always dropped them off right before Greg showed up to wherever he was going. Before this moment in time, Greg had been a man of habit, so it was not hard to drop things off right before he got there as long as you knew his schedule. So, he began to leave places early. To mess up his own schedule. He wanted, more than anything, to see who was behind the answers, and when Mycroft went to drop off his goodbye, he got exactly what he wanted.  He got what he wanted, and got foolishly attached, which was a mistake that he would soon regret. He only realized his true mistake when his mysterious stranger was suddenly ripped away from him. As soon as his stranger had come into his life, he was gone, and it broke him.

Greg, nor Mycroft, would have ever expected that, years later, they would be standing only centimeters apart once more.

\---

“I asked you what you were doing here, Holmes.” Greg attempted a growl, but there seemed to not be any actual ferocity behind it. He sounded more confused and slightly hurt, almost like a wounded animal. There was a slight hint of worry to his words as well, which caused a slight break in the taller man’s facade, even though it was back up almost as quickly as it fell.

This reaction was in no way surprising to Mycroft, however, especially given the obvious signs of the man’s recent depression. Well, not exactly obvious to anyone not looking close enough, but it truly was Mycroft’s job to be able to look closely. He was taught to thoroughly scrutinize every little detail about someone and to use those details to his advantage. For the politician, every antagonizing sign stood out, from the sleepless nights piled up under his eyes, the lack of sun on his once tanned cheeks, and the sadness in his eyes, to the inability to look at himself in the mirror. He reached that conclusion easily by noting the small shaving cut on the other’s skin. From this mark, he was also able to deduce the fact that Gregory had not been outside his flat for the entirety of his sabbatical.

The way he knew this was simple: the other had shaved today in anticipation of heading to work, and in an attempt to make himself look as if nothing was wrong. 

If he had gone out previously, then he would have shaved earlier, as he did not want people to question him, or bring up painful memories of his ex-wife. That small, barely noticeable little mark on the edge of his jaw showed that he hadn’t shaved beforehand, otherwise he would have been accustomed to the way he had looked already, and wouldn't have been so shaky. It all made sense, yet it still made the redhead’s heart ache behind his chest. 

Gregory, the man he had once known as happy and caring, and loyal to everyone in his life, now looked like someone had taken his heat out and ripped it to pieces. It nearly broke the man to think of that.

No, dear god, no. What was he thinking? 

After his first incident with Greg, he sealed himself off again. Not to the extent that he had the first time, lest he wish to become a monster once more, but just enough that he would be productive, care about Sherlock, and nothing else. No one had been able to break that resolve again, not like Gregory could. He had not even needed to worry about it until now. Somehow, he still was not immune to the detective’s charm, and that was evident as those deep, sad, brown eyes made their way into his own once more.

Eventually, he took a deep breath and gathered his resolve, speaking.

“Well, Mr. Lestrade,” Mycroft began, his voice far less cocky and smug now that they were making eye contact. It seemed as if those eyes were ones of judgment, pulling his soul from his body and examining every inch. Was this how it felt to others as they were being deduced, or was this some sort of strange power that only Gregory was allowed to have? A power that could, and did, make even the strongest man bend to his will. “As I said before, I was here to attain my little brother. I had received a security alert that let me know that he was being detained by your men, and I simply could not have that. For my brother, jail or confinements is off limits. If you or anyone else is to see him here again, you will not touch him,” Mycroft explained, utterly surprised at how easily his voice fell from his lips. 

It seemed that years of politics with liars and men with their sins written like a book across their faces, and their guilt in their eyes while remaining stoic was finally of some true help. It seemed as if this course of action was natural for him, kicking in seemingly as his fight or flight reflex. Despite how impressed with his own reactions he was, Gregory did not seem nearly as impressed, and in fact, looked rather angry by the time he was done talking.

“No.” That was the only word that made its way from Greg at first. The suddenness of it was the cause for a confused look that fell over the other’s face. “No. You can’t do this again, you understand? You can’t just run off again, acting like you’re all high and mighty, and leave me with no answers. I won’t have it. Not this time.” He breathed out, almost in the way a dragon would, rage and heat lacing his breath, and genuine anger written on his face. No one had ever seen him like this, especially Sally, and it caused some confused glances in their direction. Sally also began to make her way over, her worry evident. “Plus, without answers, I have jurisdiction to restrain both you, and your brother, so you’d better start talking.”

At that, Mycroft knew how genuinely he had messed up. Gregory was not an angry man, and it took a lot for him to get to the level of pissed off that he was now, and somehow, his presence mixed with the divorce had gotten him there. He could not stand to be the subject of his anger, so he had to fix this situation that he had gotten himself into.

“Do relax, Lestrade,” Mycroft drawled, voice as calm as ever in attempts to relax him before he truly did end up and handcuffs. If that happened, they would have much worse troubles than their past, as security forces would rain down upon Gregory like nothing he had ever experienced before. “You will get your answers, any and as many as you would like. Simply not here.” He explained, now glancing to the eyes that had focused on them. They immediately darted away as he looked over, acting as if they were not just staring, jaws hanging open like uncivilized fish. “If you truly wish to know, get into the car. My dear brother will be dropped off in a safe location, and we will be brought to one as well. There, we will have drinks, and you will be provided with food, as you simply need to eat.”

As he explained his eyes raked over the other’s face, watching his expression. He let out a subtle breath of relief as Greg seemed to contemplate before making his choice. He watched as the other moved to the car door without a word, the anger melting away.

\---

As Greg made his way into the car, he took a few deep breaths, sinking into the seat.  _ Control yourself, Greg. It’s not his fault. _ He thought to himself, sighing. 

After calming himself, he soon realized that the inside of this car was just as posh as the outside of the car, and the  _ man _ outside of the car. There were leather seats, cup holders, tinted windows, the boy from earlier, a television, and a mini-fridge. Wait, the boy from earlier? 

Soon enough, Greg soon became aware of eyes sweeping over him, and he suddenly remembered that Mycroft’s younger brother was in the car, too. Embarrassment filled his stomach in a frankly unpleasant way as they locked eyes, but he met his gaze with a smile, nevertheless. 

“Why are you sad? Divorce, maybe? Two years, I’d say. No, three, definitely three years. She left you for one of her multiple affairs, didn't she?” The young boy, no older than fifteen, spoke up. He was wearing baggy, ripped jeans, and an oversized hoodie. His eyes were horribly bloodshot, and there were bags under his eyes as well. He was obviously high, exhausted, or both. “And you're mad at Mycroft, too. What did he do? Say ‘I told you so?’ that it wouldn't last? No, then you wouldn't be in his car.” The young boy hummed simply, before beginning to fidget with his sleeves.

At the sudden onslaught of information about himself, Greg was a bit taken aback. How did he know all of that? And why the hell was he saying it? He wouldn't dare lose his temper at a bloody kid, though. He knew better, as he had been that kid once. But, Christ, some things about that truly did get to Greg. The most surprising part about that, though, was that it wasn't the things about his wife that got under his skin; it was Mycroft’s name. He hadn’t heard it spoken in years, not since it had fallen from the man’s very own posh lips. It made him shiver slightly to think about. Before he could get a word out in response, however, the boy spoke up again.

“My name’s Sherlock, by the way.” The boy, no, Sherlock, hummed softly. Their parents must have surely had a thing for naming. 

“Pleasure to meet you, Sherlock. So, what were you doing at the crime scene?” Greg asked with a gentle smile, becoming acutely aware of the fact that the car was now moving, and he still had no idea of where he was going, or where Mycroft had gone to. He let that thought slip to the back of his mind, however, as he simply relaxed into the comfortable leather seat and listened to Sherlock talk about his theories of what happened at the crime scene. It warmed his heart to see how excited the other became when he realized that Greg was genuinely interested, and wouldn’t make fun of him for his ideas. 

It seemed to have passed all too quickly, though, as soon, the other boy was dropped off. Greg waved goodbye, smiling as he saw Sherlock light up and wave in return.

As the car began its drive once more, Greg allowed himself to relax into a comfortable silence, closing his eyes.

\---

In not much time at all, the car rolled to a stop once more, and Greg slowly blinked awake with a stifled yawn. He wasn't sure where he was, or how long he had been asleep, but he did know that Mycroft was waiting for him, as insisted by the chauffeur. He quickly thanked him and made his way inside, where he was greeted by a woman with flowing black curls, and bright red lips. A small smile graced her face as she quickly glanced up from her phone.

“Follow me,” she instructed, voice as smooth and as refined as she looked. 

She took him up a set of stairs, chuckling softly as she noticed his amazed look at the decorations. Everything was stunning. There were hints of gold everywhere, and he could hardly imagine that any of these paintings that lined the walls were fake, either. He was so busy looking over everything, that he almost ran straight into the woman when she stopped to open a giant door for him. He thanked her, stepping in.

There, sitting before him, was Mycroft Holmes, in a gorgeous deep blue suit, book in hand. How long had he been sleeping? He didn’t know, and truly, he didn’t care. Every bit of anger he had felt before was gone, and it was replaced fully by amazement. There, before him, was the man that he had thought that he made up. The one that was there one day, and gone the next, sitting before him, all grown up, and more beautiful than he had ever been.

“Please, come in, Detective. I hope that you made your way here okay and that Anthea was kind enough to answer any questions you had when you arrived.” Mycroft hummed, voice sultry sweet, placing his book down as he looked up. 

God damn him. Damn his freckles, his voice, and his fancy suit. Damn it all. 

Greg was mesmerized, and he knew that, in no way possible by any state of the imagination, he would make it out of this office the same way he entered.

 


End file.
